


your heart will lead you home

by MagicaLyss



Series: Bluer Than The Sky (Whumptober 2019) [12]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Gen, Hurt Peter Parker, Parent Tony Stark, Peter Parker Has Issues, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Whump, Peter Parker is a Mess, Spider-Man: Far From Home (Movie) Spoilers, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2021-01-05 03:32:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21206699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagicaLyss/pseuds/MagicaLyss
Summary: Whumptober Day Fourteen - Tear-StainedHe hates fighting with Tony. He hates the disappointment on his face. He hates the sadness and the pain, hates the way he called this his home and not the cabin. Hates how he left without saying goodbye. Hates the lack of closure. Hates himself more than he normally does.He hates the insecurities that crawl through his head like vines, entangling him in the thoughts of alienation. Of Unbelonging. Hates the anxiety like acid, like a rope around his neck cutting off his breathing. Hates the desperation to call Tony, to ask him to come back, to ask him to wrap in a hug and take care of him and the thoughts in his head, to convince his head that it’s wrong.Everything. He hates everything.But he doesn’t bother trying to fix it. He simply pulls the blanket over his head and wishes the world away.





	your heart will lead you home

**Author's Note:**

> literally stared at a blank document for like four days... wrote this in like a few hours oops. This was like take six of my many attempts to write something  
SMFFH spoilers  


“I just want to be a normal kid!” Peter shouts, hands gesturing widely partially to keep Tony out of his face. “Why won’t you let me be normal?”  
  


Tony laughs harshly, rolling his eyes. “When have you ever been normal, Parker? That’s absolute bullshit.”  
  


“I just want to hang out with my friends without you hovering over my shoulder and telling me what I can and can’t do. Why is that too much to ask?” he demands. He wants to throw something. He wants to stomp his feet and pout like a child. He wants to cry. He wants to go home.  
  


With an aggravated sigh, Tony takes a step back, arms folded over his chest.  
  


“You know exactly why that’s too much to ask, Peter,” Tony says. It’s obviously taking all of his energy not to shout back. “You’re not a normal kid. I’m not saying that out of cruelty, I’m telling you the truth. You’re _my _kid and you’re Spider-Man. I don’t know how you could expect to be living a normal life.”  
  


The memories are still a little bit too fresh from last summer when Beck revealed his identity to the world. It’s only been about six months and his face is still constantly plastered all over the news.  
  


“I’m _Spider-Man_, Tony. Why do I need a whole group of bodyguards following me around if I’m stronger than all of them combined? I don’t need my hand held when I cross the street.”  
  


Tony’s jaw clenches. “It doesn’t matter how strong you are. You’re a _child_, Peter, you hear me? You’re a child and your face is still on billboards. Do you understand why that’s a problem for me? I let you go out every goddamn night as Spider-Man. I let you go out with friends. I let you do the things you ask to do. All I need is a little bit more cooperation on your end.”  
  


“I’m supposed to thank you for letting me live my life?” Peter exclaims, nails biting into his palms. He hates this. He hates fighting. He hates feeling like he’s a little kid. “I’m eighteen, Tony! I’m not about to go out drinking. I just wanted to get a coffee with MJ. I’d be fine if you had Happy waiting in the car outside. I can get that. But you had _six _guards follow me into the fucking building!”  
  


The billionaire runs a hand through his messy hair, sighing loudly. Peter hates how it makes him feel like he’s a burden. He hates the anxiety that crawls up his throat. He hates the insecurity that settles in the pit of his stomach.  
  


“I know it’s been hard, kid, but-”  
  


Peter knows it’s a bad idea, but the words are falling out of his mouth before he can think them through. “You have no fucking idea what this has been like, okay? You _chose _to tell everyone you were Iron Man. You didn’t lose _five fucking years _of your life. You didn’t have to find out where you belonged after _everyone _moved on without you. You have no idea what it’s like to feel like you’re losing your mind!”  
  


Tony sighs again, drawn-out and pained. They’ve talked about a lot of it before, but not enough to make the worries disappear entirely. They still peek around the corner every now and again.  
  


“Peter-”  
  


“I want to go home,” he says instead. He hates the way Tony’s face falls, the way his whole body sort of slumps, the way he sighs. He hates the guilt that follows.  
  


“Kid-”  
  


“Please. Take me home.”  
  


He doesn’t really want to. They’re all lies. His home is the cabin despite what he’s implying. He doesn’t really want to go back to May’s house where Happy’s probably gone after dropping Peter off. He doesn’t want to see May and Happy, wedding bands shining on their fingers. He doesn’t want to see the nursery with the bright yellow walls and the empty crib. He doesn’t want to sleep in his bedroom that may as well be a guest bedroom. He doesn’t want to see May’s baby bump and ultrasound pictures pinned to the walls.  
  


He doesn’t want it but he needs to leave before he says anything he’ll regret.  
  


“Alright, kid,” Tony murmurs. His eyes are sad and his mouth is downturned, shoulders slumped. Peter hates that he’s the cause of that. “Alright. I’ll take you home.”  
  


Peter keeps his head down, hands stuffed into his pockets, mouth shut, as they walk out to the car. He doesn’t want to make things worse.  
  


The car ride is silent until Peter can’t take it anymore. It’s a long drive from the cabin back to Queens.  
  


“I just don’t understand why going to get a coffee with MJ in the middle of the day, in public, was such an issue,” he says. “I was just going to be gone for a few hours max and I told you where I was going. I had my watch and my phone and my keys and I even wore my shoes with the trackers in them. Why did you have to send six guards with me?”  
  


Tony sighs. He does that a lot now a days. “I know it’s hard to comprehend, but there are a lot of people who don’t like you because of me or because of the Daily Bugle. But there are a lot of people who would go a long way to hurt you.”  
  


“Stop talking to me like I’m a child!” His voice cracks pathetically and he wants to cry. He wants to stop the car and shout at Tony and make him understand. “I fought Beck. I fought Thanos. I fight petty criminals every single fucking day. Why don’t you trust me to protect myself?”  
  


“You’re my kid, Peter. It’s my job to keep you safe and I will do anything to keep you safe.”  
  


  
*

Peter knocks on the door, uncomfortable and angry and guilty, hating that he has to knock on the door while Tony sits in the car a few feet behind him, watching him.  
  


He hates that he knows the expression Tony has on his face without looking. Struggling to keep his face neutral, but obvious pain seeping through the cracks in his armor. Mouth turned down and eyes sad and forehead crinkled.  
  


The door opens and Happy is standing there in casual attire, mirroring Tony’s expression. He opens his mouth to say something, but Peter doesn’t give him the chance, pushing into the house and making a beeline for his bedroom.  
  


He slams the door a little too loud, wincing at the creaking of his doorframe, and he falls into bed, finally letting the tears fall.

  
*

He hates fighting with Tony. He hates the disappointment on his face. He hates the sadness and the pain, hates the way he called this his home and not the cabin. Hates how he left without saying goodbye. Hates the lack of closure. Hates himself more than he normally does.  
  


He hates the insecurities that crawl through his head like vines, entangling him in the thoughts of alienation. Of Unbelonging. Hates the anxiety like acid, like a rope around his neck cutting off his breathing. Hates the desperation to call Tony, to ask him to come back, to ask him to wrap in a hug and take care of him and the thoughts in his head, to convince his head that it’s wrong.  
  


Everything. He hates everything.  
  


But he doesn’t bother trying to fix it. He simply pulls the blanket over his head and wishes the world away.

  
*

“We have our trip today… Are you going to be okay here?” May asks gently. Her hand rests on his back over the blankets that are pulled tight around his shoulders. Her baby bump is bigger than he remembers.  
  


“I’ll be fine,” he says, voice rough from all the crying he’d done the previous night.  
  


She smiles sadly, brushing his hair out of his face. “I’ve never seen you two like this before. You wanna talk about it?”  
  


“It’s stupid.” He hides his face in his pillow, words muffled. “Just wanna s’eep.”  
  


Tucking the blankets under his chin, she presses a kiss to his temple. “Call him. You can fix this, I know you can. Text me or Happy if you need anything, okay?”  
  


He nods, knowing he won’t. He should but he won’t.  
  


She leaves, shutting his door quietly behind her on her way out. He lets out a breath of relief, not wanting to socialize anymore. It’s been a long year and some days are harder than others.  
  


He was the only one snapped. Tony, Pepper, Happy, Rhodey, May, everyone. They were all fine. They all moved on without him.  
  


Tony and Pepper got married and had Morgan. Happy and May got married and she’s pregnant. They all moved. They got rid of all his old things. Peter’s rooms at both houses are just guest bedrooms he’s claimed. He wasn’t there for any of this. He missed everything. And now, it’s like he never existed in the first place.  
  


He doesn’t know why he expected there to be a Peter-shaped hole carved out of everyone’s lives for him to fill. He doesn’t know why he thought he was important.  
  


Five years. Nothing’s the same.  
  


There hadn’t been time to process it. He was given a few months and then he was off on a Summer European Vacation with his classmates and Beck happened. And then he had to deal with his identity being outed and had to deal with the press finding out about Tony and May splitting custody of Peter.  
  


Only now has he finally been given a chance to think. And he hates it. He wishes he never had to think again.  
  


Especially since all the thoughts are bad.  
  


He wishes he could just disappear into the mattress and never be seen again.

  
*

He bolts awake, spider senses tingling at the back of his neck. The front door opens.  
  


May and Happy aren’t supposed to be back for another three days. They’re driving to May’s old friend’s house for the long weekend. It’s been a long plan, but Peter was supposed to be staying at the cabin, not at the townhouse.   
  


As quietly as he can, he slips out of bed and tries to find his webshooters. He left them at the cabin. He had left in such a hurry, he must’ve left them behind.  
  


He grabs his phone off the nightstand, hurrying to find Tony’s contact. He doesn’t care that they were fighting, there are people in May’s house, and he’s scared.  
  


But just as the call starts ringing, his phone dies.  
  


With an inaudible curse, he plugs it in, but he’s running out of time. He can hear people, multiple people, talking in the kitchen, none of the voices recognizable. His heart’s racing and he needs to hide. He doesn’t know what he’s up against.  
  


So, he abandons his phone on the nightstand and slips into the closet, sliding the door shut as quietly as he can manage.  
  


The people are moving around now. Something shatters. A door is slammed open. A gun is cocked.  
  


Through the slits in the closet door, he can see his phone light up, slowly turning on. He’s contemplating ducking out of the closet to grab it, when his bedroom door opens violently.  
  


He freezes, trying his best to not even breathe. A group of people walk into his room, carelessly knocking things over and kicking things out of the way as they walk in.  
  


“Looks like he’s still here,” A woman says, picking up his phone. “I know this generation, wouldn’t have left without his phone.”  
  


One man grunts in response, lifting his blankets. “Looks like he was just here, too.”  
  


“Come out, come out wherever you are, little spider!” the second man calls out, whistling lowly. “You can’t hide forever.”  
  


He recognizes the voice as one of the men who worked for Toomes all those years ago. Otherwise, they’re strangers.  
  


“I’ll check the other rooms,” the woman says. “Check the bathroom. Weber, you stay here. Make sure he isn’t hiding out.”  
  


Weber, Toomes’s ex-employee, huffs in annoyance, but sits down on Peter’s bed. The other two nod and head out of the room.  
  


Alone, he might be able to take Weber, but when he peeks a little bit closer to the slats in the door, he sees the huge gun Weber has slung across his chest.  
  


He steps back, worried Weber will see him looking, but his foot lands on a baby toy. One he bought when he found out May was pregnant. It rattles, a fairly quiet noise, but echoingly loud in the small room.  
  


Weber _laughs_, genuinely laughs and stands from the bed. There’s nowhere for Peter to go. He’s trapped himself in the small closet. The door flies open and Peter immediately swings his fist, hoping to gain the upperhand, but his fist is caught.  
  


He gapes in surprise, taken aback by how easily his strength was stopped. These people must be enhanced if they could do this so easily.  
  


“Nice try, Spider,” Weber says, grinning madly. “You’re going to regret that.”  
  


He can’t stop the fist that swings at his face. There’s a split second of white-hot pain and then nothing.

  
*

“-home for three days at the minimum,” Weber’s saying near Peter’s head. “No point in taking him anywhere.”  
  


“What about Stark?” the woman says.  
  


A harsh laugh. “They fought last night. He won’t be stopping by anytime soon. Stupid kid’s phone password is one, two, three, four. Stark’s been texting and I sent him a text saying-” The man lifts his voice obnoxiously high. “-_I hate you. Don’t bother texting again, I won’t answer. Just leave me alone_.”  
  


“Smart idea. He won’t be bothering us anytime soon,” the second man replies. “Let’s wake the spider up and get the show on the road.”  
  


Cold.  
  


Water pours over him, drenching him head to toe in ice cold water. He splutters, eyes shooting open, well they try to open. His right eye doesn’t cooperate, probably swollen shut after the serious hit he took when he was found. He kind of hates that his top priority in his muddled mind is that the water is going to ruin the hardwood flooring of May’s beautiful house.  
  


He’s tied to one of the dining room chairs, a pair of thick cuffs around his wrists and ankles, pinning him to the chair. There’s more of the material around his middle, keeping him totally still. And a gag is pulled tight in his mouth.  
  


“Good afternoon, Spider,” the woman begins, offering a tight-lipped smile. She almost looks bored.  
  


They all look like they’re in their mid to late thirties, all of them looking like regular people you see every day. Other than they’re buff arms and muscles and angry eyes. Even that’s not too abnormal for New York.  
  


He wants to ask questions, wants to demand what they want from him, what he can give to get them out of May’s house. He doesn’t want them getting into this mess if they get home early. But the gag stops all attempts.  
  


They don’t bother with explaining either, a scary thing to Peter who’s become all too used to listening to villains monologuing and making demands. They don’t answer any of the big questions like _why_.  
  


Weber just takes a swing with his brass knuckles.

  
*

Peter slowly blinks his swollen eyes open, face aching. He tastes blood, can barely breathe. All he can think is pain.  
  


It’s been a while. He’s passed out at least three times, only to be woken up with their method of ice water. They’ve finally left him alone.  
  


His phone sits at the edge of the table. Only feet away. Taunting him.  
  


The screen lights up with yet another notification.  
  


He can barely read it through his black eyes, but he forces himself to try anyway.  
  


_Tony: I’m sorry kid  
  
_

Tears slide down his face, mixing with the blood and making his wounds sting with the salty water. He had taken his watch off, no vitals for Tony to track. He didn’t want Tony to know he was crying last night. His phone is nearly dead, and he can barely feel his fingers let alone try to get out of these restraints to grab it.  
  


He wants Tony. He wants him to somehow know what’s going on and to come rescue him. He wants to go home to the cabin. He wants Tony.  
  


Face aching, pain making his black spots dance across his vision, hopeless, he cries.  
  


And the only thing he can think is _you were right. I’m so sorry.  
_

  
*

Time passes in a blur of pain and ice water.  
  


They don’t talk to him much. They just hit him. Over and over again, laughing amongst themselves. He doesn’t know _why_. He doesn’t even know who they are except for Weber. He doesn’t know anything other than they don’t like him for whatever reason.  
  


All he really knows is that nobody’s coming for him. Tony thinks he hates him. May and Happy are away.  
  


_I don’t hate you_, he thinks desperately. Maybe if he thinks it hard enough, Tony will hear it. _I don’t hate you. Please. I need you.  
  
_

There is no dramatic door busting down. There are no more texts lighting up his phone. There’s nothing, nobody.  
  


He’s alone.  
  


“He’s crying,” Weber laughs. Another hit. “How pathetic.”  
  


“You think we’ll kill him like this?” the second man asks hesitantly. He’s sitting across from them, feet up on the dining room table, watching them nonchalantly.  
  


The woman ponders this as Weber lands another punch to Peter’s face. “Probably not. His healing is doing too good of a job. You boys can have one more night to do whatever you please and then we’ll kill him before getting out of here. The last thing we need is for Stark to find out and get here before we’re out of here.”  
  


“You want to join the fun, Fischer?” Weber asks. Warm blood races down Peter’s cheek as his skin splits for the thousandth time under the cruelty of Weber’s brass knuckles.  
  


“Do you even have to ask?” Fischer chuckles, swinging his heavy boots to the floor with a loud thud. He walks around the table dramatically slowly and then he’s right there, in front of Peter.  
  


Peter’s cries of pain are muffled by the bloodstained gag in his mouth.  
  


_I need you. I’m sorry.  
  
_

It doesn’t matter how loud he thinks, the words will never make it to Tony.

  
*

He’s going to die at their hands.  
  


Probably only a few more hours until they put a bullet between his eyes and hightail it out of Queens.  
  


Not unless Peter can stop it.  
  


Tony isn’t coming. May and Happy are still gone. It’s up to Peter, as it always is, to get himself out of this.  
  


Beaten, bruised, bleeding. He has to get to his phone.  
  


Weber and Fischer are passed out on the couches, apparently tired out from three long days beating the shit out of Peter. The lady is gone. She left right before Peter passed out. Probably to sort out their escape.  
  


Slowly, carefully, Peter scooches his chair forward. The legs scrape against the ground, but the blood and water on the ground help to slide a little bit smoother. He pushes forward bit by bit, using every inch of strength he can conjure up.  
  


He can’t die with Tony thinking he hates him. He can’t. He has to apologize if it’s the last thing he does.  
  


The chair leg hits the table leg with a little thud, and Peter freezes, body keyed up in anticipation. But neither of the men wake. Fischer snores and turns over, but his eyes stay shut.  
  


Letting out a breath of relief, Peter tips his head down until his nose can touch the edge of his screen. Thank god his password is simple.  
  


He gets into his phone pretty quickly and it’s a miracle that Tony’s contact is still open, messages still sitting there.  
  


_Tony: I’m really sorry kid. Can we please just talk it out?  
  
_

_Tony: I can’t lose you again.  
  
_

_Tony: Please  
  
_

He hits the call button using the tip of his nose, smearing blood across the screen, but if it breaks, he can replace. Right now, his phone is the least of his priorities.  
  


It rings quietly, thankfully. If it had rung any louder, the men probably would’ve woken up and ruined this whole plan. He knows he’s running out of time. His entire plan is banking on Tony answering the call.  
  


And he does.  
  


Of course he does. Peter doesn’t know how he could’ve ever doubted it. Tony will always pick up his calls. No matter what.  
  


“Peter?” Tony says. He sounds exhausted and confused and worried. But even just his voice is enough to bring the tears back and Peter sobs through his gag, desperately trying to convey how much he needs Tony right now.  
  


“Holy shit-”  
  


Peter turns his head, body shaking with fear. He’s going to die. Weber stares back at him, eyes wide with anger. He shoves Fischer awake and the two of them scramble for their weapons.  
  


“Pete? Kiddo, can you talk to me? What’s going on?” Tony asks, fear colouring his voice.  
  


The teenager sobs, pulling at his restraints as much as he can as he watches the men finally locate their guns in the kitchen.  
  


“I’m on my way, kid. Hang in there. I’m coming, okay? I’m going to get you.”  
  


“I’m sorry!” Peter tries to say, but his words are drowned by the gag and the thick blood in his mouth. He needs Tony to understand. He needs Tony to know how sorry he is.  
  


Weber presses the barrel of his gun to Peter’s head, a smirk on his face. “Say bye, Spider.”  
  


“Wait!” Fischer exclaims. “We don’t have the okay from Mom.”  
  


Stomach flipping, Peter tries his best not to think of the implications. He doesn’t have time to think about how they’re a family.  
  


“We can’t wait.” Weber flicks off the safety with too much nonchalance. “Stark is coming and he’ll kill us all.”  
  


“Mom will kill us too.”  
  


Weber opens his mouth to argue, but Peter can hear the sound of the repulsors in the distance, getting nearer and nearer by the second. He needs to time this right.  
  


He throws all of his body weight to the right side of the chair, the side with Weber, knocking into the man as the chair falls sideways to the floor, slipping in the blood and water.  
  


Weber, surprised by the sudden change in balance, slips and falls backwards, gun dropping from his hand. It’s pure luck that when the gun goes off, it hits Fischer in the leg, sending him to the floor as well.  
  


Just as Weber’s about to grab his gun again, Tony bursts through the door in his armor.  
  


Peter squeezes his eyes shut and desperate cry of pain escaping his throat as he tries to get to Tony, stuck in his stupid chair.  
  


But before he knows it, Tony’s there, armor melting away from him. The two men are at least unconscious, maybe dead, Peter doesn’t care.  
  


Tony’s quick to pull the gag away from Peter’s mouth, and the teenager starts rambling as fast as he can.  
  


“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he says, voice thick and hoarse. “I’m sorry, I don’t hate you, I’m sorry. I need you. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I should’ve- you were right. I should’ve listened to you. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry-”  
  


“It’s okay. Calm down, kid. I’ve got you,” Tony murmurs, hands gentle and warm as they cradle Peter’s face. “It’s okay. We’ll talk soon. I just need you to take a breath. It’s all okay.”  
  


But Peter doesn’t care because Tony doesn’t understand. “I’m sorry. Please. I’m sorry. I’m- I’m sorry. I- I’m sorry. I-”  
  


Tony shushes him tenderly, grabbing the set of keys off Weber to unhook Peter from the chair.  
  


As soon as they’re undone, Peter falls from the chair right into Tony’s arms, curling into his father-figure’s chest as sobs continue to wrack his body.  
  


“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry. Please, I-”  
  


“No, no, no, kiddo. I promise, you’re forgiven. Everything’s alright. You don’t need to apologize. I’ve got you, okay?” Tony murmurs, pressing a long kiss to the top of Peter’s head, blinking back tears.  
  


Peter’s shaking fingers clutch onto Tony’s t-shirt, body trembling in his grip. “I wanna go home. Please. I- I wanna go home.”  
  


Tony’s grip tightens microscopically, swallowing thickly. “Course, Petey. Of course. I just have to take you to Bruce first, okay? Get you all checked out?”  
  


There’s so much more Peter wants to say, _needs _to say, but he can’t focus enough to get his mouth to function and Tony’s arms are tightly wound around him and he’s finally safe and going home.  
  


“I’ve got you, kiddo. You can sleep. I’ll be right here when you wake up,” Tony says.  
  


That’s all the permission Peter needs, drifting off to sleep almost instantly.

  
*

Peter wakes with a jolt, expecting to be drenched in water. Expecting a hit or at least for someone to be taunting him, laughing at him.  
  


“It’s okay, kiddo. You’re in the tower. I’m right here,” Tony’s quick to reassure.  
  


He lets himself relax back into the pillows, feeling much better knowing he’s safe. His hands are still shaking as he reaches out to clutch Tony’s sleeve, feeling small and young.  
  


“You were right,” he says, failing not to cry. “You were right. I’m sorry. I should’ve- I’m sorry, I should’ve listened to you. You were right. I just- I didn’t-”  
  


“Shh.” Tony gently brushes Peter’s hair out of his face, a soft look on his face. “It’s okay, kiddo. We don’t have to talk about that until you’re better. I shouldn’t have let you go so easily. I should’ve listened to you. I should’ve tried to talk to you sooner. I should’ve worried more when you didn’t answer my texts… I’m sorry too.”  
  


Peter tugs at Tony’s sleeve, pouting childishly. “Not your fault.”  
  


“If it’s not my fault, then it’s not yours either. Everyone has arguments sometimes. It’s okay. But… But for now, I just want you to heal, okay?”  
  


Nodding slowly, Peter tugs a little more insistently at Tony’s sleeve. “Please.”  
  


Somehow, Tony understands and he carefully slides into the hospital bed beside Peter who immediately curls up against his side, fingers curling into his shirt.  
  


“I love you, kid,” he whispers. “I just hope you know that.”  
  


“Mm. I do. I love you too.”  
  


There’s still a lot more they have to talk about. They need to talk about Beck, about the Snap, about May and Happy and the baby on the way. They need to talk about Peter’s sense of Unbelonging. They need to talk about Peter’s anxiety and his insecurities. They need to talk about what happened over the weekend. They need to talk about their fight and about what Peter went through.  
  


There’s a lot to say, but for now?  
  


For now, it’s enough to hold each other close and just be grateful to have each other.  
  


For now, it’s enough to say I Love You and call it a day. Everything else can wait.   
  



End file.
